


How to Care for Your Happy

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [12]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Injury, Mentions of adult content, Obsession, Other, Panic, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 17:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16896747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: You are so very lost.





	How to Care for Your Happy

The world is a rush of golden colors. Leaves, branches, the heavy sky all spin around you as you run, as though you’re swimming against the current. You don’t know where you are. Sometimes you don’t know  _ who  _ you are. Who these emotions belong to. They’re so alien and frightening.

Not frightening like Bendy is. That’s a comforting sort of fear. A familiar fear, one you should feel. This is… this is bad. So you run.

Eventually, you stop, winded. It’s hard to run for long distances. It didn’t use to be, but over time breathing’s gotten trickier. Not that you had any reason to run, at least until now.

You’ve left the nest. Things had been good in the nest. It’s autumn, and you’re always a little cold, but your papa would light a fire and you’d huddle close until Bendy pulled you away to play games or so close it burned. You like these colder seasons, but also don’t like them because you have to put on pants. Bendy doesn’t like pants for some reason; you’ve never asked. That means you don’t like them either.

But then you had a thought today. A strange thought, from some hazy past you don’t really recall. What if you do like pants? It makes you laugh, a nervous, awkward noise. The air is biting into your bare thighs and you shift from foot to foot before plopping yourself down on the ground. The leaves, twigs, and dirt are scratchy and cold. If you had pants on you wouldn’t be able to feel them.

You don’t want to like something Bendy doesn’t like. You’re his. You’re his entirely. You only want what he wants.

You don’t think you do like pants, but you can’t stop thinking about it. And if you can’t stop thinking about it, maybe that’s because it’s true? You hold your head in your hands and wish everything inside would stop swirling, stop tumbling over each other like a maelstrom.

That isn’t the only problem, now. You just keep causing them.

You’d run away, afraid Bendy could hear your thoughts. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid Snufkin. Everything is wrong, and nothing feels right, and you’re so confused and scared.

The trees are unfamiliar, tall (too tall) and black (so black). They make you think of Bendy when he’s tall and black and looming. But it’s not comforting, because they’re topped with too many colors, and it just reminds you that he’s not here. That you’re all alone.

You can’t survive on your own. You’ll die without Bendy and your papa, and you don’t want to die. Not like this.

The sky is a low, threatening grey. The world is big. You’re very small in it. You don’t know if you like pants or not.

You start to cry. You wish Bendy was here to lick up your tears, but you ran away from him. You didn’t want him to find out about this. Didn’t want him burdened by your stupid thoughts, by your worries over things that shouldn’t be problems.

But what if you do like pants? Who are you anymore, if you start liking things on your own. Start having your own opinions. Bendy can never know about this.

You pull your knees up to your face and rock back and forth, crying but trying to be quiet. You don’t want to be found. You’re such a mess-up. You  _ ran away _ , just another problem for Bendy to deal with. You cause so many problems.

Suddenly, you shove yourself to your feet. You sway, confused, disoriented. Leaves fall off of you like a shedding tree. You need to go back — no, you need to go  _ farther away _ .

Yes, yes. You want to hide. To hide away these feelings that are yours yet shouldn’t be. To hide away that something’s wrong, something’s very, very wrong. You keep having thoughts, and they won’t leave you alone.

What would Bendy want? For you to return. You can’t go back — you’re afraid, you don’t know where you are. The trees all look the same, all loom above you, their spirits quiet as the creep of winter winds its tendrils between the trunks. It’s cold. It wouldn’t be cold with pants. Or it still would be but you wouldn’t  _ feel _ it. Pants can be… good. Your papa says you have to wear them in winter. You have to wear so much. You’re weak and thin and brittle like a dried up little twig.

You wish you weren’t so weak, so that Bendy didn’t have to deal with things he doesn’t want to. Like pants.

A sudden thought. You should take off your boots. Yes, pants are bad. Boots are bad. You’d take off your thin coat too, but you know he likes that. Likes to slip his paw or tail up underneath while you’re resting together in the nest. He likes your scarf, also. Good to hold tight, so tight that you can’t breathe and you wheeze in funny ways and your vision turns splotchy. Those can stay.

But the boots? They’re in the way. They’re too much like pants. You fall over trying to get them off, fingers fumbling at the laces, the long, long lines of laces all the way up to your knee. They protect your feet you know, but what if you accidentally kicked out and hit Bendy? Nothing, of course, would happen, but just the idea of it frightens you. You don’t want to hit Bendy. It makes you sick. There’s nothing in your stomach to vomit up because Bendy hadn’t fed you today.

He doesn’t have the chance to, now. You’re bad. You shouldn’t be allowed things like boots or food. You deserve to be uncomfortable and vulnerable and cold.

Off, off, off. You kick and yank and soon your feet are free. You wiggle your black toes like the toes of a cat, feel the chill of the air bite into the pads. It makes you think of ink on your skin, a comforting thought. Ink creeping up your legs, up your arms, staining your skin so darkly it never comes off.

That’s not where your markings come from, you don’t think, but it’s a nice thought. Nicer than the other thoughts you’ve been having, all scattered and sharp like broken glass in your mind.

You like pants — or don’t — you ran away — you should go back — you need to be alone — you don’t want to be alone. You miss Bendy. You miss him so much.

But going back means explaining where you’ve been, why you left. Having to do that is the worst pain in your chest. You know it doesn’t make sense. You know it’ll upset Bendy. You can’t handle that.

You throw your boots into the forest and stumble away. Just away. Anywhere. The forest floor is hard and icy beneath your feet. It hurts to run when you’re used to boots, but pain is good. Pain is grounding. You think, and it’s a silly thought because he’s not a Joxter, that maybe Bendy can track you better if you’re bleeding. You want to be found but don’t want to be at the same time. So you run away and you hope your trail is obvious enough for even Bendy to follow.

The woods grow deeper and darker. Quieter, too. It makes your mind scream all the louder. The sky looks swollen and ready to burst. You feel ready to burst. You scream and scream and there’s nobody (Bendy’s not here) to hear you. 

He might not be here, but Bendy’s in your thoughts, overwhelmingly so. He probably knows by now you’ve run away. You wish you knew what you had been thinking. Nothing, probably. Stupid Snufkin. That’s what you are. You shouldn’t like pants. You shouldn’t have run away.

You splash through a narrow stream and come out on the other side colder than before. Bendy’s ink is cold, and even when he nestles in the fire like some little dragon, it doesn’t stay warm very long at all. When he shrouds you in it, envelops you, it’s so soothing, like a cool compress against an angry burn.

Your face is hot and you think for a moment to return to the stream to dunk your head in the water. But you shake it off. You deserve to be uncomfortable. You don’t deserve anything that reminds you of Bendy. You left him.  _ You left him _ .

You run into a tree, knock yourself over. Pain blossoms across your shoulder, and you curl up in the detritus of rotting leaves and dirt. You taste blood in your mouth. Blood is good. Bendy can find you the more blood there is. Your papa can find you. You don’t want to be alone.

Several moments more are spent writhing on the ground. Where you belong. You’re worthless. You need things like pants and boots and food to stay alive. You’re such an inconvenience.

It starts to snow.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if I'll do anything more with this, but it was written so have a vignette peeping into Happy's mind.


End file.
